


Snow Bound

by BJ (darali_starscream)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, First Aid, Hurt!Sam, Hypothermia, Light BDSM, Oral Sex, hurt!Dean, safe sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 19:13:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15419712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darali_starscream/pseuds/BJ
Summary: Sometime in S4.  You're a doctor patching the guys up under adverse conditions, and they appreciate it.  Dean really, really appreciates it.





	Snow Bound

**Author's Note:**

> So, um, yeah, my sister introduced me to Supernatural a couple of months ago and it's devoured my sanity. This is the first smutfic I've written in years.

They could thank God -- and pay double -- that you didn't live that far away.  As it was, it takes you nearly half an hour before you park beside the big black Chevy, both cars partly concealed behind an abandoned dumpster and stacks of old loading pallets.  Stealth is necessary.  The hotel hasn't been out of business long, but it's still technically uninhabited and Michigan doesn't have a squatter law.

Though you doubt like hell any of the cops will care.  A mass of wet air blowing off the lake and straight into an ice cold sky equals big, heavy wads of snowflakes burying everything and everybody.  It was barely four in the afternoon and still dark enough to need lights.  Add a blast of fresh Arctic air direct from Hudson Bay and nobody's going to be going much of anywhere for a while.

The front doors are sealed off and covered with sheets of plywood.  The side emergency exit door looks secure but the padlock's missing, the chain draped and threaded to look solid.  The inside of the hotel is dim and dingy, the only light coming from battery powered LEDs over the smoke alarms.  Forcing yourself to relax through a shiver, you set your bag more firmly across your back and pull a pistol you hope like hell you won't have to use.

They're in the kitchen, the world-notorious Winchester brothers.  Both pale and stressed, both beat to shit, and both armed and aiming at you.

"Hey hey hey relax!  I'm a friend of Jesus Calderon," you say, putting the safety on your own weapon and laying on a countertop, shifting a little so they can put their flashlights on the red cross patch sewn to your bag.  How else to put them at ease?  You think frantically.  "'We believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth, of all that is, seen and unseen.  We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only son of God,'" their guns lower and their tense expressions relax.  Your mouth continues on autopilot, "'Eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light--'"

"Okay okay, that's enough, we're cool," one of them cuts you off.  He puts the safety on his pistol and tucks it behind his back.  The other one just lets it sag, as though his muscles have just failed--

Because they have.  Spitting a curse you run to the bigger man as his knees buckle, unshouldering your bag and tossing it on a long hip-high prep counter.  The other man, the one with his hair cropped into a basic brushcut, takes his brother's weight with a grunt.  "Sammy?  Sammy?!?"

With your help the semiconscious man is hoisted onto the prep counter.  Laid out supine the problem is clear; his shirt is drenched with blood and hanging off his body in ribbons.  On your orders the shirt is ripped off, revealing skin that's not in much better shape.  "What the hell happened?"

"Angry spirit," comes the terse reply.  "Threw him through a greenhouse wall."

You nod, seeing the wound that needs attention first-- a wide flap of raw skin running down his left flank, jerking upwards and going deep under the seventh rib.  Everything is oozing but not pumping.  The tissue underneath is red, no sign of subcutaneous fat.  Breathing is unimpeded if shallow.  You need to do what you can to make sure the cut didn't injure the liver. 

"Yeah I don't know enough to tell," the other one says, making you aware that you'd been thinking out loud and that's not helpful when there's no assistance nearby.  Right now, you'd give your eyeteeth for Nurse Besch and her merry minions.

The one on his feet takes your instructions with a nod and leaves for your car.  With a thought towards the weather, you'd packed a box of water and rations.  But it's the space heater that's the really important part, you think as you strip off your coat and mittens.  With the degree of shock he's in, hypothermia will kill your patient faster than anything else.  Besides, basting him back together is going to be a mint-flavored bitch as it is, never mind doing it with your hands shaking from cold.

Your estimate of the brother goes up a notch or two when he gets the heater on the first trip.  By the time he's done getting the water jugs and box of rations you have the patient rolled to expose the surgical field, supported on your wadded-up winter coat.  The patient-- "Sammy?  Sammy, can you hear me?"

He groans.  " _Sam_.  Only Dean calls me Sammy."

"Okay Sam.  I'm going to start giving you some Lidocaine injections.  It's a local anesthetic--"

"I.  Know," he grumbles.

"Are you allergic to it?  Or any other medications?"

He grunts something but before you can ask his brother comes in with, "No."

One for the good guys.  Another-- your exam of Sam's body didn't turn up any masses in the abdomen or other signs of internal damage.  Just straightforward trauma of lacerations and contusions, with the pale, sweaty skin and rapid pulse characteristic of hypovolemic shock.  Ignoring the little voice screaming _Ambulance! Now!_ you turn back to the other man.  "Dean, right?  See if you can find some mixing bowls or prep tins."

"Mixing bowls," he repeats, making you grind your teeth.

Before he can let you have it with whatever smartassery his mouth can put together you snap, "Just _do_ it asshole, we don’t have time to fuck around."

That gets through and he starts opening cupboards.  Your patient laughs.  "He is an asshole.  She called you an asshole."

"Bitch," Dean says, finding a cache of baking supplies still in the manufacturer's wrapping.

"Jerk."

In spite of yourself you smile.  You’ve got a little sister yourself.  "Okay the water's off so we're gonna have to improvise."  You clench your fists.  This is going to hurt.

And it does.  A lot.  You hiss through your teeth as the ice-cold rubbing alcohol sluices through your fingers, Dean pouring over your hands.  It's as close as you can come to proper sterile technique in these conditions.  Pulling on gloves, you order, "Set up those emergency lamps.  I can’t see shit.  Then rise your hands and put on some gloves."

"Yes ma'am," he says, and you can see he means it.  Wasn't their daddy in the Marines?  It shows.

The Lidocaine helps, thank God.  Dean holds the bottle and you direct him on where to pour and moisten, as you clean the raw tissue exposed by the cuts.  Of more concern is Sam's shivering as hypothermia digs its claws deeper.  "Try to relax as much as you can," you say, working as fast as you dare.

"Yeah Sammy," Dean soothes.  "We can't turn the heater on until she gets done with the alcohol."  Sam whimpers out an affirmative, short sharp breaths hissing between his clenched teeth.  One hand clenches his brother's hard enough you can almost hear bones creak, and Dean grips back just as tight.

As Dean fires up the space heater you lay out a tray.  Mattress stitches, you decide, taking into account the depth of the lacerations.

With some warmth from the space heater, the job looks almost manageable.  When Dean demonstrates basic suture technique to your satisfaction, you put him to work on the cuts in Sam’s arm -- he'd raised it to protect his face, is your guess, and they're shallow enough for basic interrupted sutures.  You put the brothers to work occupying each other by telling you about their latest case.

"You didn't know?" you pipe up as you knot a stitch.  "The house used to be a stop on the Underground Railroad back in the 1850s."

"Yeah if we'd've _known_ that--" Dean says with a bit of pique.

"Explains the hidden passageways," Sam says, his ribs moving as he tries to shift position.

"Hold still," you say.  "You're doing great but I'm not done yet."

"Yeah," he says, a sound that's not quite a whimper making it past his lips.  "Just cold."

"I'm all done here," Dean says, snipping a thread.

"There's emergency blankets in my bag," you tell him.  Dean fetches one and gently covers what bare skin he can.  The soothing sounds and motions he's making probably help more.  Not the first time these two have had to do that for each other, you think, shaking your head at the thought of anybody closing a cut this big with dental floss and a bottle of Smirnofs.

Your focus narrows to their voices and the slowly closing strips of skin.  Even the sense of cold recedes a little, just another part of the background.  It is getting stronger, you note, and even though your hands are steady the rest of you is trembling with suppressed shivers.  Dean takes up a post at your side, holding a blanket with outstretched arms, holding the warmth from the heater against you and Sam.

Finally, you tape down the last dressing.  "There.  Keep an eye out for bruising," like a resident instructing an intern, you think, drawing a finger over the other side of Sam's ribs, "here, and here below the navel.  Means he’s bleeding into the abdominal cavity.  That happens, fuck everything else and get to a hospital.  Also," Sam's big hand engulfs yours as you and Dean help him to sit up.  He's woozy and hurting but still present and accounted for.  "If you feel any pressure in your chest, shortness of breath, or you start coughing up blood or any other fluid go to the emergency room.  Comprende?"

"Comprendo."

A root through your bag produces a sample pack of painkillers, the ones that require a special license to dispense.  "One of these, every eight hours.  After that, Advil should hold you."  You fill a syringe and inject Sam in the hip.  "Tetanus booster.  Watch those cuts for any smelly drainage, tenderness, or inflammation.  No showers for at least two days.  Get some rest, food, fluids, et cetera."

"Gotcha covered there Sammy," Dean says, producing a flask.

"And _no_ booze," you snap.  "Not on top of those," you tap the pain pills, the plastic blister packs rattling under your fingertip, "you don't."  You hate this part so you get it over with and name a price.

Dean says some unkind things about your parents.

"Piss off Winchester, I know who my daddy is.  That price is cost, cuz this shit," you jerk a thumb at your bag, "ain’t cheap."  As it is you need to find a new connection for the drugs since Shorty's moving up to Marquette next month-- you shut down that train of thought before it crashes into the pit like it always does.

"Just pay it Dean, for Christ's sake," Sam groans.  His fingers shake as he pops a pill out of the blister and dry-swallows it.

Dean sighs.  "The stash is out in the car."

"Great.  Keep the heater.  Cops come you never heard of me."

"Right.  Thank you Doctor.”  Even tired, injured, cold, and in pain, Sam has a beautiful smile, one that could turn heads.  He has a beautiful body too, when it’s not beat to hell fighting the forces of evil.  You know bodies, and his is a nice one.

Oh well, ships passing in the night, you think as you grab your bag.

Or maybe not.  Outside is a blank white wall of blowing snow.  The cars are barely visible humps of something, and the streetlights are almost completely invisible even though they're less than thirty yards away.  The cold has gone from normal winter to blast freezer, the kind that kills people on their way to their mailboxes.

"Shit!" you throw up your hands as a hard gust of wind rattles the access door against the rod holding it closed.

"Yeah," Dean agrees.  "Hold on I'm gonna get some stuff from the car--"

"Don't you dare!" you grab his arm.  "That wind'll freeze you solid."

"So you're saying we're stuck here," he says acidly.

"Unless you wanna try _driving_ in this shit.  Which if you do, you're a better man than I, Gunga Din."

"What about you?"

"Well since I don't want to die in a fucking snowbank," you say, quashing the reflexive worry about how you're going to make it to work by six-- you don't have a work to make it to, any more, "I'm stuck here with you I suppose."

This time when Dean takes out the flask, you don’t object.  "Suggestions?"

"Well we're indoors, we've got a heater, we've got rations for a few days.  Hole up here and hope the heater doesn't run out of fuel before this blows over."

"Yeah," he agrees.  Smart boy, he grasps reality almost immediately.

And up until now you've been too preoccupied with working on his brother to notice something; Dean is hot.  Like mouth-drying, knee-weakening, there-is-a-God-and-his-finest-creation-is-man _hot._   Between him and Sam-- the Winchester genes must be good ones.  And you're gonna be confined to base with both of them until Mother Nature cuts this part of the world some slack.  From personal experience that could be anywhere from ten minutes to--

Without even thinking, you snatch the flask from Dean and take a long swallow.

\---

Practical considerations help.  A thorough search of the hotel turns up some mislaid linens and mattress pads, but no mattresses or beds to put them on.  With no furniture one room's as good as any other.  Dean picks out a bare box of an office, with a door secured by a police bar and no exterior windows.  You shake your head as Sam starts to put a rolled-up towel along the bottom of the door.  "We need some air coming in."

Another few minutes of work produces a couple of kludged-together bed nests, the mattress pads folded and stacked into a makeshift futon for Sam.  The heater goes on the lowest setting you can manage to conserve the fuel.  Emergency lights cast everything in a cold blue-white glow.  With the limited airspace the heater manages to make the room almost habitable, and the three of you take up positions around an empty box turned upside down.

You appoint yourself mixmaster and pour water into measuring cups from the baking supplies Dean found earlier, adding powdered electrolyte solution that purports to be lemon but isn't.  "Well," Dean says, grimacing at the taste of not-lemon, "on the menu for this evening," he digs into the stack of MREs, "we've got--  fake beef stew, fake chili--  bad idea in an enclosed space--  fake buttered noodles--"

"Don't even show me that crap," Sam gripes.

"Me neither," you say, long weeks of buttered pasta and peas seared into you memory from lean times in your childhood and later.

Dean gives you a look but goes back to the stack.  "Oooh!  Mac and cheese!"

"With cut-up hotdogs?" Sam asks, sounding all of twelve.

"There's jerky sticks."

"I can improvise."  Dean tosses a box over his shoulder and Sam plucks it our of the air.

"Nice.  How's your batting?"  At Sam's blank look you sigh.  "Never mind.  I'll take a beef Stroganoff if they're in there."

The nice thing about Meals Ready-to-Eat is they're hot; a shot of water activates a heating element and voila, hot high-calorie mush.  Dinner passes pleasantly, the brothers entertaining you with C-Rat horror stories from their dad’s Vietnam tour.  You chime in with some of your mom's greatest hits from Deer Camp from when she was a kid.

Dessert is meal bars washed down with more electrolyte solution, fortified with the last of the liquor in Dean's flask.  You bite your tongue; on top of a full stomach half a shot of whiskey's not going to do Sam any harm.  " _Slainte._ "

"Shit Doc, I'm sorry," Sam says out of the blue.

"What for?  Believe it or not this is the most fun I've had in months."

"What about your husband?"

"My husband?  I'm--" your thumb lands on the band circling your left ring finger.  "Oh!  I'm not married.  I just wear this to keep the creeps away."  You slide it off and put it back on in its usual place on your right middle finger, turned out to show the flaming pentagram stamped in black.

Dean takes your hand and turns the ring toward the light.  "Smart."

"So," Sam says, clearing his throat, "how long do you think this storm's gonna last?"

"Dunno champ," you admit, taking your hand back.  God, how long's it been since anyone held your hand?  Not counting your niece, not at all the same thing.  "Could be a couple hours.  Could be a week."

"Any ideas on how to occupy ourselves?" Dean asks.  You're not imagining it, the charm is definitely thicker coming from that direction.  From the tiny cringe on Sam's face he's picked it up too.  Maybe you shouldn't have said you were single.

"Well," you dig into your bag's side pocket and pull out your tablet, "reception's shot to shit but I might have something saved."

"I got a deck of cards," Dean said, pulling a pack from his pants pocket.

You both look at Sam, who puts a protective hand over his coat.  "The crossword book is off-limits."

"Dipshit," you mutter.

\---

Dean and Sam groan as you rake in the pot.  "Where did you learn to play cards?" Dean demands as you sort out the loose change.

"Ex," you say shortly.  "Come to find out he didn't like losing any more'n you do."  You shuffle the deck with a crisp snap.  Anger at the breakup's long since mellowed into irritation, which is funny when you can still remember bursting into happy tears when the engagement ring slipped onto your finger.  At least it ended before either of you did anything irrevocable.

"Okay, the game is five-card stud, nothing wild, ante's a quarter," Sam says, as Dean cuts the deck and slides it over.  "So we went out to the garden shed, Dean pops the lock, and at first nothing happens, right?"  Coins chime as you all kick in your ante.  "But then we hear this clunking noise, and I swear this is true--"

"Garden gnomes," Dean says, his tone dark.

"Those cute little things with the dunce cap looking hats?" you ask.

"'Cute'? Sam echoes.  The brothers exchange a look.  "She's calling them cute."

Dean shakes his head.  "Weirdo."

"Schmuckbait.  So anyway."

"Anyway," Sam picks the thread back up.  "Dad's just standing there with that giant shotgun of his, with his mouth hanging down to his belt buckle."

You open betting with fifty cents, and as Dean raises another fifty, he says, "Sammy and I are on either side of Dad, I've got my 1911 out and Sam's got a crowbar and we're just standing there like idiots while this one big gnome moved--"

"--and Dean just unloaded," Sam says, starting to laugh but his injuries restrict him to soft snorts.  "I think you got off--"

Dean mimes a stance, his empty right hand squeezing an imaginary pistol, "Five."

"Five shots.  Turned the little bastard to powder.  It's dead quiet," Sam says.  "Then Dad just held out his hand and Dean gave him the gun.  Dad pulled the clip, looked at it, and said--"

"'Those were silver bullets, boy,'" Dean says, his voice dropping an octave and going rough and loose.  "'What've I told you about wastin' ammunition?'"

You snort out a laugh.  "'I have pulled my weapon and dusted the unholy forces of kitch sir," you deadpan.

"Oh it gets better," Dean says.  "Come to find out there was a nature spirit bound to the garden."

"And it was turning _garden gnomes_ into its demonic hoarde?" you demand.

"Pretty much," Sam confirms.

"The victim's mother, the lady who owned the place originally?" Dean adds.  "She _collected_ the damn things.  There must've been forty or fifty in the shed.  And the house?  All those creepy little grins," he mimes a shudder.

"The other gnomes started hissing and trying to move but they couldn't walk because they didn't have knees," Sam says around fresh chuckles.  "I think Dean and me spent like an hour tracking down and smashing every piece of ceramic we could find on the property while Dad exorcised the spirit.  But just as he got done--"

"No let me guess," you hold up a finger.  "The neighbors called the cops."

"Bingo," Dean says.  "I'm still not completely sure how Dad talked us out of that one."

"Think it's one of those," Sam says, dealing the last upcard, "better that we'd be able to say under oath we never knew for sure."

Your jacks are holding.  "Call."

"Raise a quarter," Dean says, flipping one into the pile.  "So how long you been living here Doc?"

"Couple years.  I used to live out to Osseo but then I--" you pause a moment, not sure if the story is something you should share or they want to hear.  Professional barriers exist for a reason.  "I was engaged but my fiancé broke it off.  His sister and her husband felt sorry for me so they're letting me live at their house until they get back from Florida in May."

"Call."  Sam takes the opening, "What happened?"

What the hell, they'll be gone when the snow blows over.  "I thought I hit the jackpot, you know?  Loving boyfriend, done with my internship.  My parents sold their house just before the market tanked, so I even managed to pay off most of my student loans.  I get to go be a resident in the same hospital I was born in, in a small town in the middle of nowhere.  I really needed that, I did my internship at Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit.  That's where the Army trains medics to deal with gunshot wounds.

"Come to find out, the maternity ward-- the one where my sister and I were born?  It's haunted.  By a baby-killing nurse."  You focus on turning a coin over between your fingers.  "Her first victims were twins.  Miracle babies.  Their parents had been trying to conceive for years.  I had to tell-- God, their father actually rent his clothes.  I didn't think anybody actually did that."

It's freeing, saying the words.  The therapist had been kind but you'd known better than to lay that on him.

"Anyway.  A friend of a friend of mine knows a journalist in Dearborn who writes about ghosts.  I called Molly, Molly called Jesus, and--"

"--so long spirit," Dean finishes.

"After that," you shrug.  "I couldn't go into that hospital again.  I know it's clean now, I watched Father Wabash bless the place.  Incense and Latin chants and everything.  I know it's safe, I know it.  I just-- I can't.  So," you take another look at your hand and put the coin on the pile.  "Call.  Let's see 'em Dean."

Dean's full house beats your three jacks and Sam's magnificent bluff.

"Anyway," you say as Dean deals.  "Jesus is the one that started passing the word around that I don't pass out when I see slime and I do business on a cash basis.  But I hate extorting money out of hunters.  You guys are doing a goddamn public service.  Besides, sooner or later somebody's gonna say the wrong thing and I'll have the fucking IRS demanding how I can afford to live with no job.  Or the licensing board with bust me for not completing my residency."

"That sucks," Dean says.

"It's not funny," you say, catching the slightest whiff of a brush off.  "I can't get mobile if the cops look at me funny, not if I want to be useful.  I wasn't kidding about working on you two being at cost."

"You've given this a lot of thought," Sam says, impressed.

"Yeah, I just--" you sigh.  "I even thought about buying an old RV and turning it into a roving clinic.  Have Scalpel, Will Travel."

"That's an _awesome_ idea," Dean says, his eyes lighting up with the possibilities.  It strikes you just then, he's your age.  Maybe even a little younger.  Until you look into his eyes.

"Awesome, but not practical," you disagree.  "The law keeps track of doctors, for obvious reasons.  It wouldn't take much to get the DEA on my ass, someone notices my license number filling scrips in multiple states.  And spending ninety percent of my time on the road driving to the same dozen or so patients is not, as they say, a sustainable business model."  You look at your hole card and grimace.  "Over and out."

\---

In the end, you lose about ten bucks and a chunk of pride at the sure knowledge they went easy on you.  With those oh-so-innocent good ol' boy smiles you can imagine the sheer bloody carnage they leave behind in the card tables and pool halls of the world.  But it's late and Sam in particular needs to crash.

The boys excuse themselves to the room designated for the unmentionable, and you flip through your tablet.  There's the audiobooks if you get desperate, though this is probably not the right crowd for a continuing education series on closed head trauma.  There's the complete _I, Claudius_ saved to the tablet's memory for just such emergencies.

The suggestion is received with more enthusiasm than you'd expected.  "Best sleep aid in the world," is Dean's scandalous opinion.

"Philistine," you mutter, loading the first episode.

"Nah, just lots of PBS when we were kids," Sam says, making small pained noises as he eases himself down.  He reclines Roman-fashion, you note with a little smile, stretched out on his side to avoid putting weight on fresh stitches.

"You okay Sammy?" Dean asks, beating you to it.

"Yeah just sore.  Tired."  He picks at the waistband of his jeans, stiff with dried blood.  "Really wishing I could get out of these."

"Sorry buddy, the doc won't let me get our luggage."

"You _enjoy_ freezing, Dean?" you ask.

Dean shrugs, giving you a look from under his lashes.  "You could always warm me back up again."

That earns him a pillow between the eyes.  Even though the thought of warming him up is going to go right into your Nights With Mister Shakes mental folder.  Acres of skin, cold to the touch but warming under your hands, arms going around you, that plush lower lip between your teeth--

Shit.  Flouncing around to make it clear that You Are Going To Bed And This Conversation Is Over Dammit, you nestle down in your assorted sheets and blankets, hitting Play on your tablet and letting the scare chord opening kill further comment.

_"I, Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus--"_

You don't even have the nerve to ask for your fucking pillow back.

\---

Floating atop sleep like a dollop of foam on a cup of coffee, you peacefully drift and let yourself recharge.  A part of your brain is set to alert, ready to wake the rest of you if your patient needs help or something else comes up.

The rest of you is marinating in low-key sexy thoughts and half-dreams, surrounded by the smell of keyed-up male bodies.  It's been a while, after all, since-- well, since, and by that time the two of you were in a relationship in name only.  Odd, how that hand-in-hand sense of someone who got you and loved that you got him died less than two days after accepting his ring.  Like the diamond was really a refractive lens, bending the light between you just enough to make every attempt at connection miss.  The one time you'd tried to get kinky, for example--

Oh, shouldn't have remembered that.

Your helpful brain takes out your ex's bland good looks and subs in Dean's, all square jaw and soft lips and oh-so-expressive eyes.  In your imagination, arousal turns them murky green.  Would he beg?  Would he make _you_ beg?  How thick is that rogueish façade, you wonder.  Because that's what it is, every instinct in your body says it is, and you know sure as God made green grass and blue skies that the reality of the man is very different--

You wake up all the way when you hear Dean getting up out of his bedding.  "What is it?"

Dean looks over at you as he picks up his pistol.  "It's okay, I'm just gonna walk a perimeter."

"Right.  Be careful."

Dean grunts a reply and slips out the door, leaving you shivering in the blast of cold air he lets in.

The fuel in the space heater is holding, for now.  On his futon of folded mattress pads, Sam's out like a light.  Feeling like a heel, you wake him up enough to drink some water while you check his dressings.

"How do you feel?" you ask, handing him a pain pill.

"Like I got thrown through a greenhouse wall," is the tart reply.  "Where's Dean?"

"Checking the exits," you tell him.  "Looks good.  Go back to sleep."

The only reply you get is a sleepy groan as Sam lays himself back down.  He's under in seconds.  Good, he needs all the sleep he can get.  You're guessing that's why Dean's making the rounds, letting Sam know someone's on the lookout and it's okay to relax.  You lay back down and close your eyes, letting the soft English voices from your tablet fade into a soothing drone.

A noise from outside puts you back on alert.  Sam's still out but Dean is AWOL.  You sigh out a curse as you quietly slip out of the warm little cave and out into the ice cold lobby.

Never whistle for the wind unless you want it to blow-- it's Dean, shivering so hard he's bent over double, leaning on the wall like a drunk clinging to a barstool.

"You fucking idiot!" you hiss, coming to his side and getting your shoulder under his arm.

"Keep your voice down!" he hisses back, chattering teeth making the words come out in stutters.  You ignore him because your hand comes away from his coat sleeve sticky.

"Son of a bitch!"  Now what?  It's the office or the lobby.  Under ordinary circumstances you'd use the abandoned front desk-- Mother Mary you are a fucking _idiot_ , of _course_ the older sibling would downplay his own injuries for the sake of his little brother, you should've checked Dean over as soon as you'd finished stitching Sam up.  What if he has an internal injury?  He just fucking _ate--_

Slap yourself later, worry about patient now.  You lead Dean back to the warm office, ignoring his halfhearted protests.  Keeping it down as best you can -- Sam for his part is still zonked out -- you direct Dean to sit against the wall.  "Take off your coat and shirts."

"Can't," he whispers.  "Too cold."

Pulling on gloves, you snap, "Don't care.  Take them off _now._ "

Giving you a look like you just shot his puppy, Dean starts stripping as you lay out supplies.  You pull on gloves as he shucks the thermal undershirt.  The only blood you can see is on the left forearm.  Quickly you examine him for bruising; nothing except for some surface contusions on his back.  A quick check of his ribs reveals no tender points and there's no masses in his abdomen or indications of internal bleeding.

"See?" he says as you give him the news in a low voice.  "I'm fine."

"Sometimes God forgives," you snark, putting your attention on the other injury you did find-- a burn score in the shape of a hand, cupped over his left deltoid.  "What's this?"

Dean shifts away.  "Long story, doesn't hurt, don't worry about it."

It's not bleeding and the other thing is, so you let it go.  The cut's a nasty one, a deep jagged scraped-up thing running along the extensor muscles in his forearm and heavily contaminated with flakes of dirt and rust.  Dean hisses and grunts despite himself as you clean and debride.  "How many stitches are you thinking Doc?" he asks.

"It's been open too long, I can't suture," you explain as you carefully close what you can with butterfly bandages and prep injections, amoxicillin and a tetanus booster.  "Be lucky if it doesn't get infected, you stone-brained son of a bitch.  Anything else?"

"Twisted my knee a little but it's fine now," he says.

The dressing takes another few minutes.  The icy feeling of his skin through your gloves hasn't eased at all.  In the normal run of things you'd have him stripped to the skin and covered in warming packs, with an IV of warmed saline solution in his arm and an orderly by his bed-- sometimes hypothermia patients start to feel overheated as their body temperature starts coming up, causing them to want to go back out in the cold.  Your traitor brain reminds you that you're the closet thing to a warming pack available, and the trained medical professional has no choice but to agree.

For the sake of a few minutes delay, you turn your head and note Sam's still snoring away.  Something catches your eye and you giggle.  "He's drooling."

Dean leans forward.  An arm goes around you and he buries a half-hysterical laugh against your shoulder.  "What did you give him Doc?"

"Just some hydrocodone.  I wanted him to get some sleep."

"So," Dean says, his breath a light feather touch across your ear, using a tone that rumbles through your body, "hypothermia first aid, right?"

You roll your eyes and sigh, taking that traitor brain of yours to the woodshed and locking it inside.  "Lie down and get comfortable.  And _no_ , I am not propositioning you.  What the Christ possessed you to go out anyway?  Were you born stupid?"

"It's stopped snowing and the wind's died down," Dean explains a bit defensively as you gather up the material from your bed nest and start shaking it out over him.  He nods at the rucksacks he'd brought back.  "Sam's right about needing to change into fresh clothes.  I thought if I was quick--"

"Jackass.  Let me see your hands."  A quick check reveals no dead spots, and you can feel the muscles sliding smoothly against each other.  Your attention goes to his face next, checking his nose and lips for gray spots--

\--except that he's lying down and very close and his chest is very bare and everything is untidily wrapped in bedsheets and suddenly you remember, down to the fucking _hour_ , how long it's been since you've been laid.  Dean covers one of your hands with his and your eyes meet.  You were right, they are a murky green.

Thank God, Sam chooses right then to let out a snort and a half-sneeze.  You turn your back to check the propane, then strip down to your thermal undershirt, Dean's eyes on you like weights.  You can just let him heat himself back up, right?  He's under covers, there's a heat source.  You don't have to play spoons with a complete stranger for the sake of duty, right?

Except not really because it's barely warm enough for habitation in here and he's still shaking and he doesn't deserve to lie there and suffer.  You also owe him for not treating him sooner.  God, that scrape on his arm had to hurt like a motherfucker and he'd never let on, not even once.

Dean holds the covers up and you lay down on your side, letting him wrap his cold arms around you and pull you close.  It's like being cuddled by an ice block.  Or a marble statue.  You flinch as his hands slip under your thermal and press against your bare stomach.  "Doesn't this work better if we're," he leaves a pause, "skin-to-skin?"

"You won't die," you tell him, "and I think I have the right to a little modesty.  I really don't want to wake up with Mister Happy jammed against my ass."

" _Mister Happy?!?_ " Dean demands, in a full-voiced squeak that makes Sam sit halfway up mumbling wha? before flopping down and going right back to snoring.  You clap your hand over your mouth, strangling back giggles.  It's just, the crowning insanity.

You can't see Dean sulking, but you know that's what he's doing.  What he's also doing, to your relief, is warming up.  The layers of sheets and blankets are doing their job, trapping your shared body heat and letting it build.  The hands on your belly stop feeling like stone and slowly they start to feel like hands, regular human hands.  The shivering eases as he relaxes, blood coming back up from his core.  "Starting to feel better?"

"Yeah," he says, withdrawing his hands from your skin and recrossing them over the top of your thermal.  A loose, natural hug.  "Thanks Doc."

"My pleasure Dean."  You pat his hands and trust that he'll know you're smiling.  "Now get some sleep.

"Can't," he says, surprising you.  "This is the episode with Captain Picard in it."

\---

"You're sure you wanna try this?" you ask Dean as you pitch the last trash bag into the dumpster.  The red one, the one with the bloody towels and clothes and the used sharps, is coming with you for burning later.

"I'm not going to risk my baby getting towed," he says, sliding behind the wheel of his Chevy.  "Here goes nothing."

You cross yourself as you step back from the Chevy's open hood, jumper cables clamped into place.  The starter chugs and you cross your fingers, earning a chuckle from Sam.  "Come on . . . come on . . ."

The engine catches and growls to life.

"Yeah baby!" you yell with a fist-pump.

Sam smiles, the expression rather sick.  The thought of riding shotgun in that big black battleship on barely plowed and unsalted roads obviously does not appeal.

"Don't look like that, you're riding with me," you say.

"OhthankGod," he sighs, his breath a thick white cloud in the cold.

At the stroke of five you'd awakened to two sleeping patients, an empty propane tank, and functioning Internet.  According to the weather report, the fun wasn't over yet-- round two was scheduled to arrive early that afternoon.  With no heat it'd be dangerous to try spending another night squatting, a judgement to which Sam and Dean had deferred.  The snag had come up when Dean absolutely refused to leave his car behind.  Digging it out of the snowbank that had piled around it had taken most of the morning, and of course the cold had drained the battery.  God bless the little red satchel your dad bought you when you got your first car.

Dean puts the big black Chevy in Drive and carefully pulls out of the hollow that's formed around it.  The tires keep traction, barely.  He grins through the open window.  "Smooth sailing all the way.  C'mon Sam."

"He's riding with me," you say.

Dean frowns.  "Oh come on Sammy, you don't trust me?"

"You put that fucker in a ditch I'm gonna need him to drag your sorry ass to a hospital, Winchester."

"Hey!" he levels a finger at you.  "Watch your language, missy."

"That's Doctor Missy to you, dipshit."

"Guys!" Sam calls the meeting back to order.  "Can we just get going?  I can't feel my toes."

You give directions, just in case.  "It's the house on the corner with the angel fountain out front.  Don't look at me, I think it's tacky."

The trip, which would normally take ten minutes, takes over an hour, both of you rolling at a jogger's pace with your hazard lights blinking.  "When it gets this cold," you explain to Sam, "road salt doesn't work."

He nods, frowning out at the gray sky.  Thick flakes have started drifting down, the heavy, almost downy kind that are the signature of lake effect snow.  "Is this kind of storm normal?"

"For this time of year?  It's not _ab_ normal," you say.  "Over Christmas, in '98?  Honest to God blizzards.  We were digging out of that for the rest of the winter."

Sam grunts an answer and you take the opportunity to ask, "How're you feeling?  Sore?"

"Yeah."  He tries to lift his arm and grimaces.  You'd had to raise your voice -- and cuss out Dean -- to sideline him from the snow shoveling.  The last thing any of your merry band needed was having to make a flying trip to the emergency room because Sam popped a stitch and really hurt something you couldn't fix.

"Sam you're _hurt_ ," you say.  "The world will not end if you take it easy for a few days and give your body time to heal."

That's worth a deeply bitter laugh.  "Doc," Sam says, his beautiful smile cramped into an expression more at home on some PTSD patients you've treated, "don't take this the wrong way, but you don't have any damn _idea_ what you're talking about."

It's true enough, so you let the conversation drop and concentrate on driving.  It's like riding on a gelled pad of greased snot.  Your heart stops every time you nudge the wheel or touch the brakes.  The radio's too busy pumping out weather updates to play much in the way of music, though a warble through Rocky Mountain Way seems to lift Sam's mood a bit.  Dean's keeping pace and a reasonable distance.  You wave and smile at his answering thumbs-up.  

Finally, _finally_ , you pull to the side and let Dean put his car in the garage first.  He skids a bit on the unshoveled drive and you cross your fingers.  "Asshole, I swear, you smash that thing into the wall--"

Entry is accomplished crash-free, and with just enough room to put your car next to his.  As the garage door closes you sag in relief.  Safe.

\---

It's a little gratifying, to find out Dean and Sam share your opinions on exurban home building-- crap insulation, rooms too big to heat and cool properly, lots of purposeless windows, an outdoor pool that can only get used three months out of the year, the kind of thing meant to impress the easily impressible.  "I really love the commemorative plates," is Dean's backhanded compliment.  It's not home.  But it'll do until you figure out what to do next.

The boys claim the guest suite with the efficiency of people used to living out of suitcases.  Sam wins the rock-paper-scissors for the shower, only to have you sternly point him to the sink.  "Helmet wash for you mister, you're not getting my knitting wet."

"You tell 'im Doc," Dean says, giving Sam a thoroughly evil grin.  "Is it okay if we do a couple loads of laundry?"

And that's pretty much how the day goes.  You ply the brothers with food and watch Mythbusters and make sure Sam stays medicated.  With safety and comfort comes a reassertion of Dean the Dickhead, flirting outrageously with you as his drugged brother rolls his eyes and makes gross-out faces.  There's intent behind the teasing, though, and once Sam passes out and stays there--

Sam finally calls it quits after he and Dean get done washing the supper dishes.  Dean follows, tipping you a wink as he passes.  You almost break your leg getting to the shower.  If this were a movie, you reflect, there'd be a montage of you and Dean each getting clean and sweet and ready for adventure.  Taking it to the basics, you like him, he likes you, and while it'd be nice to try for more you'll settle for a good hearty fuck.

Dean doesn't keep you in suspense.  You've finished toweling your hair and slipping into your favorite seductive-but-not-really sleepwear-- tiny boy shorts and a Tigers t-shirt that's way too small and worn to the point of translucence.  A knuckle raps softly on the bedroom door.  Heart pounding, knees weak, and insides melting, you open it.

Dean stands there a moment while you drink each other in.  He's also freshly showered, damp hair sticking up everyways, shaved, breath sweet with the cinnamon-flavored toothpaste in the guest room.  His face lights up when he sees you.  "Hi."

"Good evening," you reply, your voice low.  You step aside to let him in.  "How's Sam?"

"Down for the count," Dean confirms, looking you up and down with the most predatory bedroom eyes you've ever seen in your life.

You moisten your lips.  His eyes track the motion.  "Need something?"

"God yes."  A step and you're in his arms and he's kissing you and it's the best thing to happen since--

Your kiss breaks with a pop.  Dean's mouth slides down your jaw and you gasp as he bites gently in the hollow by your ear.  His hands slide up under your shirt and settle on the bare skin above your hips, all strong fingers and hard palms.  Your own hands sink into the soft brush of his hair.  As one of his hands slides under and up, palming a breast, your fists clench and he hisses, pulling back; you take the opening and press your mouth to his throat.  You can _feel_ how hard his heart is pounding, it makes the skin quiver under your lips.

" _Christ_ , Doc," he moans.

"You like?"

He responds by pulling your hips flush, bending his knees to get the level right.  Oh yeah, he likes.  You run a hand down his body, under the elastic of his sweatpants.  He likes that too.  If the soft gasp and sudden bulging eyes are anything to go by, he _really_ likes a gentle squeeze and press.

Moving fast, Dean's fingers take the elastic of your shorts and he squats, shucking them down your legs and leaving you bare-assed.  With a hand on each ankle he guides your steps out, putting your feet a bit apart.  You tug at the back of his T-shirt.  Dean takes the hint and tugs it off, tossing it aside.

Last night, in the dim light of the emergency lamp-- the invisible and absolute barrier of patienthood had protected you from how fucking sexy he really is, his body a collection of anatomical parts, comely of course but not there to be desired.  Here, now, in light and warmth, he is very alive and beautiful and good God you want him.

Dean stands, slowly, sliding his fingertip up your leg.  Ankle, shin, knee-- you're so fucking turned on your _thighs_ are wet.  One hand turns and cups you but doesn't _touch_ you, not like you need it to.  Heat, presence--

His hand shifts, presses, _moves_ , and you have to grab his shoulders to keep from falling over as one finger slips between.  "Wet," Dean murmurs against your cheek, pressing a kiss to your temple.  "Gonna make you feel so good--"

His finger drags over your clit and your legs fail.  Dean all but throws you onto the bed and lands hard on top of you, tackling you into the mattress.  The mattress springs twangle in protest and in spite of yourself you burst out laughing.  "Easy sweetie, don't break the bed."

Dean ignores you, pinning you down and kissing you until you swear you can taste blood.  His hands worry at your breasts through your shirt and it almost hurts but who cares, not you for damn sure.  Mouth replaces hands, lips sucking you hard through the fabric of your shirt and good Lord you could almost come from that.  Dean ups the ante by rucking your shirt up to your collarbones and devouring you bare.  His mouth slips down the centerline of your belly and no way, _nobody_ does that on the first hookup--

Fingers pull your pussy gently open.  Hot breath ghosts across you, pulling a weak sound from your throat.  Dean's soft mouth presses all around between your legs, tongue flicking out here and there, making you shiver and gasp.  "Sweet," he groans and fuck, you're so sensitive his fucking _voice_ feels good.

"Please," you manage and Dean obliges.  Kisses, then licks, teasing until you could cry from need, then giving until you could cry from relief.  Your spine bends nearly double as he closes those lips over your clit and _suckles_.  Both your hands go into his hair and he looks up, brilliant green eyes hot and playful.  He's _enjoying_ this.

Two fingers of one hand slick up inside you and two fingers of the other hand start drawing tight little circles over your clit.  A shriek jumps out of your throat as the tension he's been so carefully building comes apart.  Dean holds your hips down as you come, clenching around his fingers and arching up against his arm, biting your hand bloody to muffle your cries.

"Fuck!" Dean comes up for air and sees you half in tears.  "What did you do?"

A laugh pops out as he gently takes your hand and looks over your tooth prints.  "Nothing, just--" you sit up and seize his lips with yours, holding him tight and letting the aftershocks jolt you both.

"Pants.  Off," you order when you've caught your breath.

"Yes ma'am."  Dean gets to his feet and peels off his sweatpants.  Your heart hops halfway up your throat when he stands.  Shirtless he's hot, fully nude he's a fucking mortal sin.  Even his cock is gorgeous.

And he knows it, the bastard.  "Like the view?" he asks, striking a pose and giving you a dirty little grin.

Sure, he's just given you the second best orgasm of your entire life but shit, you're not _that_ easy.  You shrug.  "It's all right."

A hand goes over his heart.  "'All right'?" Dean says theatrically.  "Christ that's cold, Doc.  'All right,' she says."

By now you're hiding in your hands, laughing in a totally dignity-free bray.  God, how long has it been since you've laughed like that?  It's infectious too, when you look up Dean's half bent over and laughing like a damn fool.

When the giggles finally pass you notice his erection's wilted a little.  Can't have that, won't do at all.  Shucking you shirt, you crook a finger and say, "Get'chor fine ass over here Winchester."  You get an idea, and when he joins you on the bed you push him onto his back.  "Grab hold of that.  Both hands."

"Yeah."  Each big fist wraps around a bar in the bedstead.

"Good."  You give him a kiss, putting a hand on his arm when he lets go.  "Nuh-uh.  Not until I say you can."

Dean blinks, but after a moment's thought he shrugs and sets his grip.  The position pulls him taught, hard muscle and soft skin and wiry brown hair.  His body is a delight and you take your sweet time pampering it with kisses and licks and soft bites.  Down, deliberately ignoring the interesting parts, you note long strong legs with knees that turn out a bit.  Dean hisses as you trail your mouth up the inside of one thigh, kissing the channel where leg and hip come together.

"I could do this all day," you murmur, pressing a kiss just below his navel.

"Don't you fucking dare," he gasps as your cheek brushes him.

You glance towards the nightstand; yep, supplies all laid out and ready.  Gently, one hand cups and toys with his balls while the other wraps around his cock.  The tendons in Dean's arm jump out as he squeezes the bedstead, a soft groan passing his lips.  A minute or so of gentle stroking and squeezing, testing.

Hands off, to let you both catch your breath.  Dean's eyes are wild as he gazes down at you; holding his gaze, you wet your palms and work him between your hands.  Dean has a very expressive face, and your heart beats a little harder at each wince and grimace.  As his hips start to move you shift your grip and squeeze.  Holy shit it works; Dean groans as his orgasm fragments.  His eyes are pleading, adorable and hot as hell.

"Shh," you soothe, holding down his hips with both hands.  "I'm not done with you yet."

"Are you trying to kill me Doc?" Dean demands between gasps.

"Now that's no fun," you leer.

A doctor's hands need to be quick, strong, precise, and gentle, you remind yourself with a small smile, as you slip a condom over Dean's quivering erection.  Whatever comments Dean might have die at birth when your mouth follows it, sucking him _hard_.  One hand presses down on his hip while the other wrings the bit your throat can't reach.  You bob your head up and down, sucking and gulping at him like you need his cock to live.

Dean goes from soft moaning to cussing in minutes.  Again and again you pause to catch your breath, draw him out, keep him wanting and needing.  Every muscle in his body pulls taught, your weight and your will the only things keeping him from throwing you on the floor and fucking you in half.  Good God, seeing this strong man totally at your mercy is the sexiest thing you've ever seen in your life.

When he starts actively begging, you crawl up his body and give him a soft kiss.  "Breathe, Dean."

"Yeah," he gasps, arching up to chase your mouth with his.  "Fuck you're cruel."  Another kiss.  "Fucking gorgeous.  But cruel."

You shrug.  Making a decision, you kiss his wrists and gently unclamp his hands from the bedstead.  "Wanna do something about it, tough guy?"

With that you're on your back, Dean's knees in between yours, his thighs shoving your legs apart.  A hand drags across your pussy and comes away dripping, and just like that he's in you to the root and it hurts and it feels so damn good it brings out a tear.  Dean lies flat on top of you for a long moment, face buried in the pillow, muttering something that sounds like weapons specs.  And maybe this is a one-time event, a pleasant but ultimately meaningless way to waste a snowy evening.  Doesn't stop you from taking a moment to fix it in your mind, something you want to remember forever.

Dean levers himself up on one forearm and you gasp in a breath.  You wrap yourself around him, and when he moves it's perfect.  "God, fuck, _yes_ , please," you whimper.  He's hot and he's heavy and he fits so close, like a hand in a glove.  Subtle little motions, like breathing, dragging through you.  You kiss everywhere you can reach, shoulder, throat, tensed jaw, open lips.

His eyes are closed.  "Look at me," you say.

Instead, Dean shifts himself and _rocks_ into you, hard.  All you can do is hang on and match him.  Noises spill out of your throat, the kind you might be embarrassed about, later.  They're in harmony with the desperate cries coming from Dean.  He's close, you can see it from the tension contorting his face.  Slip and drag and everything drawing together and focusing and rising.  "God," you whimper, "so fucking good--"

With a whole body clench you come and come _hard._   Your eyes pop wide and meet Dean's, all clear green glass.  You take his mouth again and bury a scream against his lips.  His body jerks and shudders into you and he breaks the kiss with a harsh cry.

Dean considerately twists to one side as his muscles fail, flopping flat on his back,  His chest heaves for air.  You're in even worse shape, every cell in your body offline.  If this were a cartoon, you think, you'd have a little _Out Of Order, Please Stand By_ sign over your head.

He recovers first.  The bedsprings sigh as Dean rolls to his feet and heads for the bathroom.  Part of you hopes he'll come back, share the blankets, maybe gear up for another round.  The wiser part doesn't expect him to, and the thought makes your heart break a little.  Surely he's not _that_ invested in being hardcore.

You must've dozed a second, because when you open your eyes next Dean's there.  He hands you a warm washcloth and slides into bed.  Cleaning up makes you wince.  Yeah, there will be bruising.

"Shit.  Did I hurt you?"

You shake your head, tossing the washcloth into the hamper.  "I'm gonna steal from a bad Mel Gibson movie," you say.  "You fuck like a world champion, man."

That gets you a delighted smile.  "What can I say?" he says, gathering you in to lay in the crook of one arm, "I was inspired."

\---

When you wake up late the next day, they're gone.  Of course they are, you think a little bitterly, the weather's clear and the plow trucks have the roads open.  What's the use of staying somewhere safe and warm?  At least the little bastards picked up after themselves.

It's hours before you find the note, tucked under the TV remote:

 

_Doc,_

_If you're serious about wanting to help, call this number.  Bobby's a friend.  He might have some ideas._

_Thanks.  For everything._

_Sam_

_Dean_

 

Two signatures in two different hands.  It makes you smile.  You fold the note and stick it in your wallet.

A month later, you hang up the phone on the news that your not-in-laws are on their way back from Florida.  The thought of living with their awkward comforts and passive-aggressive demands for progress nauseates you.  God, what are you going to do now?  The question's been sitting in your brain like a thorn caught under your skin.

It's in that frame of mind that you dig the note out of your wallet.  The texture of the paper under your fingers makes you smile.  They came to you hurt and you'd helped.  A clear win for the good guys.  That's what you miss, you realize.  The sense of accomplishment, of making things a little better for the person under your hands.

_"Singer."_

You explain, Bobby's contributions limited to grunts and yeahs.  "So that's pretty much it," you say.  "I want to help.  But I don't know how to make it work and keep my license."

 _"Most of us aren't gonna care if your papers are in order Doctor,"_ Bobby says.

"I get that, but I can't get the supplies and drugs I need if I don't have a license.  I know most hunters support themselves under the table.  That's not going to work.  It's just not."

_"Yeah."_

A long silence, long enough for your stomach to drop.  "Look, I'm sorry I bothered you.  If you see Dean and Sam tell them I said hi--"

_"Well hol' it a second, Doc, just let me do some thinkin.  Usually when a civilian says they wanna help it's not a real good idea to accept.  Mostly they're not trained and they're dealin' with a loss.  Makes 'em a danger to themselves and others.  God knows I was."_

"Yeah.  Ideally," you say, thinking out loud, "I'd be in a secure location, solo practice with hospital privileges somewhere nearby.  Records onsite, with a separate set for hunters.  If everything gets done on a cash basis there'd be no need for anybody's charts to leave the premises.  The problem with that is completing my residency, and getting enough cash together to set up my own practice."

_"Well, that I might be able to help with.  How do you feel about South Dakota?"_

\---

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback appreciated, darali_starscream@yahoo.com


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